


Devil Like Me

by Valerin Berenghar (Valerin)



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25687900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valerin/pseuds/Valerin%20Berenghar
Summary: The monk knew that neither of them would leave this wretched camp without whatever that was left of the fabled knight.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 58
Kudos: 202





	1. Chapter 1

The boy’s lips moved as if the words were pouring out of him, but none were heard. Instead, the world rang loud in his ears like a wild, rippling stream; suppressing everything with its deafening tune. The flickering torchlight deepened the boy’s frown who stood before him, etching the worry onto his young face and for a moment, the sole thought that came to the monk was the _contrast._

Moments before, the boy had raised a sword almost double his size and faced the Trinity guard without the shadow of an afterthought. The very air around him had breathed defiance – courage; a kind seldom found even in the most skilled of warriors. But now his eyes glimmered in the dim light, chin trembling like a leaf in the wind and—

_ “—getupgetupgetup, get up!” _

The words echoed as if coming from the other end of the field, but he knew that it was the boy’s words. Frantic, desperate, and wretchedly matching the heartbroken look on his face.

“ _Pleasepleaseplease_ please _get up!”_

He felt a hard tug pulling him forward; hard enough to cause the world to _spin_ as if it was screwing him into the ground and straight to Hell. He fell onto his hands and the ground splashed upon impact, and out of all the thoughts that ran amok inside his aching head, the one that came to him was that it hadn’t rained for days.

His gaze fell from the boy. Blood from his fallen brothers pooled around his hands, at his knees; seeping into the fabric of his trousers and licking the skin beneath warm. Brothers who’d glanced at him like he was nothing but a dirty mutt in the streets; brothers who’d been waiting for a moment like this just so that they could draw their swords and turn against him because wasn’t that what Father’s lecture had been all about?

_ You don’t kill the dog because it looks mean, you kill the dog because it bites. _

It’d been a cautionary tale where the message was loud and clear – there weren’t any second chances for someone like him, for someone damned. The thought came like a slap to the face, the finality of his actions washed over him like a tidal wave and his stomach turned itself over with nauseating effect, the ringing in his ears flared into a mighty roar and the world spun impossibly faster—

—he didn’t realize the hands placed on his shoulders until they were gone. The bile burned raw in his throat and he spat— _drooled_ to get everything out,hands clawing through the wet grass as if that would stop the world from whirling. He coughed dryly and then coughed again, and again and again until it felt like he’d rearranged every broken rib. The effort left him desperately sucking in air, breaths hard and heavy, and only when he calmed did the touch return, less urgent this time around; a twin pressure on his shoulders.

“Please get up,” the boy begged and this time, his voice didn’t sound so distant. “I have to find him, I _know_ he’s here somewhere—we just have to find him, _please_.”

When the monk slowly lifted his gaze, he immediately found himself pierced by the boy’s pleading eyes. There was a storm behind them; a rage, a sadness, a desperation that made his entire chest throb.

He knew who the boy meant, and he knew that since brother Salt had shifted his focus onto the young Fey, it meant that the knight was no longer in this world. But he couldn’t say that – he couldn’t say anything at all; his tongue felt like a dead weight in his mouth and his chest ached to the beating of his heart. Each hard thump was like another stone being placed onto his chest; a building pressure ready to crush skin, bone and muscle into nothing but bloody powder.

He let out a shaky breath, gaze falling all the way down to the ground, but he could still feel the boy’s eyes upon him.

“You can track him, can’t you? Isn’t that what you do? You hunt Fey!” Even beneath everything else, the hope in the boy’s voice was unmistakable. “You must sense that he’s here somewhere—please, please, _please_ you must try.”

He gingerly leaned back, hands coming off the wet ground and sluggishly wiping over his thighs to dry off the blood and grime. He thought about how the boy wouldn’t even be here if he hadn’t hunted down the Green Knight and dragged him to death’s door in the first place. Everything was his fault and he’d sacrificed everything to make at least one small part right; to save the boy from a fate he knew all too well.

But for as desperate as the boy was, he’d encountered the youngling enough times to know that he was stubborn as a damn mule. Neither of them would leave this wretched camp without whatever that was left of the fabled knight.

He dragged the back of his hand beneath his nose, wiping away the blood and snot as he managed a curt nod in reply. Beneath the tickling smell of campfire, there was a myriad of scents dancing through the crisp air, but none stuck out more than the smell of Fey.

“Sword...”

The word tasted metallic in his mouth, round and uncomfortable but the boy acted as if stung. Before he could even look the youngling in the eye again, the sword was held before him – red and stained and a proof of his sins. His hand trembled as he reached for the grip, fingers curling around the worn leather and when the boy let go of the pommel, it felt like the heaviest thing in the world.

“Can you sense him? Do you know where he is?”

The monk pursed his lips; fingers tightening around the grip as he stuck the sword in the ground. The boy grabbed his free hand, pulling him up up _up_ —

—the boy screamed. Perhaps they both did. He didn’t realize he’d squeezed his eyes shut until he pried them open, only to discover that the world swayed back and forth like the waves at the beach on a stormy day. He breathed hard through his nose and he couldn’t tell what he held onto the hardest – the boy, or the sword.

Before them, Goliath stood tethered by a tent pole just a stone’s throw away, but despite the narrow distance, the tremble in his knees made him doubt that he would even make it halfway. 

“Fetch my horse...” It didn’t even sound like his own voice, but his throat ached so he supposed it was.

The boy turned on his heel and scrambled in the direction to where Goliath was. The monk swallowed hard, ignoring the bile at the back of his throat as he remained still with only the sword to keep him upright. He could feel it sink deeper and deeper into the ground. 

They were at the outskirts of the camp, but still very much surrounded by countless tents that were strung up close beneath the crescent moon. The air smelled of beeswax and moldy leather, of hay and blade oil, and then there was the stench from the dead guards – grassy and metallic and utterly _foul,_ but beneath all that, there was the undeniable smell of Fey.

He watched as the boy fiddled with Goliath’s reins, offhandedly untying them. A long time ago, Father had once asked if they reeked of evil and corruption, and if that was how he could tell man blood from demon blood. Not all Fey smelled alike, but the boy was Sky folk – the very air around him whispered that secret and just like all Sky folk, he smelled like the air after a thunderstorm. A pungent zing in the nostrils, clean and fresh much like the world after a hefty downpour. He remembered the way Father had looked at him when he’d told him that, the honest to God's truth, and the trashing that’d followed. Apparently evil and corruption didn’t smell that way.

The boy walked the horse back to him and thrust the reins into his hand. “Where to now?” the boy asked with gleaming—hopeful eyes; it was like he was holding his breath in wait for an answer.

The monk slowly shifted his stance, weight coming off the sword and he sluggishly pulled the weapon out of the ground. He brushed the flat side against his calf, wiping off the mud and muck, and then did the other side before he sheathed the sword. The question hung unanswered between them, pulling on the strings hard enough that he could see how boy’s face twisted in impatience.

The wind breathed past them and with it, the smell of Fey followed. He looked to the direction where the wind had come from, hand idly coming up to pull up the hood once more.

“Hold onto me,” he mumbled.

The boy quickly joined him at the hip and the monk draped his arm over the boy’s shoulders, partly shielding the youngling beneath the dark cloak. He felt the boy’s arm wrap around his waist, fingers finding purchase on his belt while the other fisted the fabric of his tunic.

“Do you know where he is?” asked the boy.

“Maybe,” he breathed as he tugged on the reins in his other hand, gently ushering Goliath to walk with them. The first step was unsteady, but the boy pushed against him, propping him up and putting pressure on everything that hurt. He grimaced through the vivid pain; jaw clenching shut so hard that his teeth hurt, and the world continued to tilt back and forth without end in pace with their uneven steps. The sickness was lodged at the back of his throat like a constant threat.

They walked slow – so slow that even Goliath paused every other step just to wait for them to catch up. The camp was ghostly quiet around them, and the monk purposely led them along less trekked paths as they ventured deeper into the encampment, guided by nothing but that smell of thunderstorm. He could spy some of his red brothers between the tents, running along the larger paths and hurriedly making their way to the heart of the camp – the same way they were.

Guilt, shame and disgrace washed over him when he caught a glance of Father’s tent in the distance; tall, dark and ominous as it peeked over an abandoned cart stacked with hay. His stomach dropped like a stone and a flash of warmth went over him, branding the shame into his flesh to the point where he almost believed that it would be that sinking sensation that would knock him to Hell’s gates and not the injures from the fight.

He tore his eyes from it, the sudden jerk prompting a painful cramp in his neck. He couldn’t let himself think about that; about what Father would think, what he would say, what he would _do_ when he found out. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut, knuckles whitening around the reins as he let himself be guided by the boy for a few, agonizing steps.

It felt like they’d walked for a thousand miles when he could sense more than just a whiff. He breathed hard through his nose over the effort more than anything, but the smell of Fey—of thunderstorm filled his entire lungs.

There was a tent before them, long and wide and the smell was coming from _there_ , he could feel it in his bones. The revelation that they were close had him glance down at the boy who still clung onto him for dear life. The monk slowed their pace once they reached the tent, finally stopping altogether. The opening to the tent was on the opposite side from where they stood, but the entry faced the heart of the camp and if the murmur coming from that direction said anything, it wasn’t an option to go around.

The boy took one glance at him and then it was as if he read his mind because in the next moment, the youngling tore himself away from his grasp, almost sending him toppling backward but he braced himself just in time. The boy fell to his hands and knees, quickly lifting the canvas curtain that made the tent wall and peeked inside.

“I see something!” the boy spoke hushed, but the excitement was still there. “It’s empty, but I see something—someone is lying in there!”

The torches were positioned closer in this part of the camp and it was only now that the monk saw the resemblance. All at once, everything changed as the revelation came crashing down upon him. The warm, flickering light tinted the boy’s hair into a bright, golden hue and when he turned to look back up at him, the hardened expression on his young face struck a familiar chord. Perhaps they even had the same eyes because why would a boy otherwise venture deep into enemy territory if it were not for his father?

The thought hollowed him out in a way he didn’t think possible. It made him feel like a fool for not connecting the dots earlier and suddenly, what was on the other side of that thin wall felt even more daunting.

“What are you waiting for?” urged the boy, waving his hand angrily at the tent. “Use your sword!”

He acted on command, the reins sliding out of his hand before he drew the sword. He shifted his stance, parrying the spinning more than anything before he raised the sword, tip poking through the canvas with a _pop_ before he sliced all the way to the bottom.

Before he could even reach out to stop the boy from dashing inside, he’d already slithered through the makeshift opening. The monk’s heart practically trashed itself against the broken ribs and he followed the boy as quickly as he could muster, praying to the almighty that hewas wrong and that the knight _wasn’t—_

—the boy stood at the tent’s center; rooted to the ground.

And… and before him was the Green Knight. Lying deathly still on a bed of… Green.

The monk blinked once, twice – hand coming up to wipe the sweat and blood from his eyes. The world remained the same when he opened them again. Grass and vines had weaved themselves through the coarse rug on the ground as if trying to devour what was left of the Green Knight. The tent smelled of damp earth and young pine, of moss and thunderstorm but it didn’t reek of _death_. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen – unlike anything he’d ever heard of and—

“—is he dead?” 

The boy’s voice was nothing but a whisper. While the monk couldn’t see his face, he could practically hear how the boy’s heart shattered into a thousand pieces. His heart pumped furiously in his chest as he took one step at the time, using the sword for support to keep himself from keeling over as he approached the boy.

The boy looked up at him, eyes burgeoning with tears. “What’s happening to him?”

“I don’t know.”

It sounded like an echo; feeble and hollow, but it was the truth. He glanced over to the Green Knight before he slowly walked the few agonizing steps to where he laid. The monk stuck the sword in the ground, grip hardening as he gingerly eased himself down to his knees next to the fallen warrior. Up close, he could practically see the grass grow – the way the vines formed nubs that sprouted into vivid petals a few moments after and everything looked so _surreal_.

But not as surreal as the faint rise and fall of the Green Knight’s chest.

“He’s alive.”

The words sprung out of him, hoarse and sudden, and the boy practically threw himself down to his knees beside him. The monk held out his hand cautiously, stopping the boy from reaching out.

“Are you sure?” asked the boy as he wiped away the silvery trails on his cheeks. “Can we touch him?”

Before he could answer, the murmur from the outside turned into a mighty roar. The hair at the back of his neck rose and in the next, the loud cries were accompanied by the sound of clashing swords. After that, the smell of man blood sailed through the entry with the sweeping wind.

“Get the horse.”

The boy shot him one look before he pushed himself upright and bolted to where Goliath stood outside. The monk sheathed his sword, freeing up his hands as he reached out for the Green Knight. The air practically _hummed_ around him in the same way a waterfall could make the very air tremble; it was an eerie, unexpected sensation that had him pull back slightly. 

He steeled himself and reached closer, and then there was the _change_ – the sizzling feeling beneath his skin as his body reacted as if out in the woods. The green spread across his hands, traveling beyond the sleeves of his shirt but for as much as he hated this demon shape, he didn’t withdraw his hands.

Instead, his fingers brushed by the grass surrounding the Green Knight.

It was like a kick to the face.

He was thrust backward and fell onto his back, and then—and then there was only the _burn_.

It hurt and it hurt and it _hurt_ more than anything he’d ever felt in his entire life. The edges of his vision blackened and the sole thought that screamed within his mind was that this was _hellfire._ The punishment for all his sins and that he was damned to endure _this_ for all eternity—

“—what did you do?!”

The boy’s scream barely carved through the scorching pain and—and— _and_ —

—it took him a moment before he realized that it’d stopped. The abruptness of it all had him staring at the roof that spun in circles above him. Where he’d previously heard the roar of hellfire in his ears, all he heard was his own, wheezing breathing. The excruciating agony in his hands had cooled into a sear and when he raised his hands to look at them, he found them… normal. Not demon green or burned black – there was only the smallest slice over the tips of his fingers, no thicker than a strand of grass. He ran his thumb over the silvery gash; it was smooth like an age-old scar and it didn’t hurt, didn’t burn.

He saw the boy peering down at him through his shaking fingers. 

“What happened—what did you do?” The boy pulled on the straps to his cloak and helped him sit up.

“I… I don’t know.”

They both turned in unison to where the Green Knight laid. Where he had previously rested on a bed of grass, there was instead ash. He was still sickly pale, clothes ripped and golden hair tinted red, but there wasn’t a speck of ash on him. It was as if the greenery had just… gone up in flames without harming him.

The boy pushed himself up, feet immediately steering him closer to the Green Knight and the monk could see his next move play before his mind’s eye. He flung himself up, desperately reaching out to stop the boy despite realizing that he wouldn’t be able to reach him in time and—

“—nonononono, _wait_!”

The boy planted a hand on the Green Knight.

“What?”

The boy almost glared back at him. A mix of confusion and annoyance played on his features from where he stood with his hands wrapped around the Knight’s wrists, readying himself to pull him up.

The monk let out a sharp breath. 

Nothing had happened.

“ _Helloooo_ , we need to hurry—c’mon!”

Blinking out of his temporary stupor, the monk gingerly pushed himself up and only now realized that whatever that’d happened had sent him across the tent. He hobbled back to where the boy stood by the Green Knight and the youngling stepped to the side, holding up the Knight’s limp wrists for him to take. He became hyperaware of the boy’s eyes upon him as he reached out, just as he became aware of the change in the air – it didn’t hum anymore, didn’t smell.

There wasn’t a spark or a kick or whatever it was that’d send him halfway across the tent when his scarred fingertips brushed over the Knight’s skin. Instead, the first thing that came to mind was the warmth – or the _absence_ of it. He was lukewarm at best and that detail had the monk throw caution to the wind. 

Specks of ash beat up into the air as they used all their might to haul Green Knight off the bed of ash and into the saddle so that he laid draped like a sack of potatoes. The monk cupped his hands and boosted the boy up so that he sat behind the Knight.

“C’mon, let’s go!” The boy called after him as yanked on the reins and jabbed his heels into Goliath’s sides, steering the mount toward the cut in the canvas. The monk watched how the boy ducked as Goliath walked through the narrow opening. He followed as quickly as he was able, ignoring every ache, every strain in his body.

When he touched the canvas, a wave of heat traveled through his fingertips. The hair at the back of his neck rose and he froze to the ground. A cold breeze passed through the cut opening, swiping over his damp face and clawing at his clothes, urging him to back inside again.

He slowly turned – back to where that bed of ash was. His fingertips burned as he squeezed his fists, nails digging into the palm of his hand. He couldn’t make sense of what’d happened but that ruined pile of ash evoked a deep, primal _fear_ and yet—

“—what are you waiting for, c’mon! There’s a horse for you here!”

The monk jumped in surprise, turning on his heel to find the boy peering inside the tent once more. Without further thought, he tore himself away and ventured outside to where the boy hurriedly pointed at the white mount that stood teethed by a nearby tent, nervously scraping at the ground and shaking its head.

He hurried to the horse, breath straining in his lungs as he tied the reins free. The pale mount trampled in circles when he sat one foot in the stirrup, hardening the effort but he clung desperately to the pommel and cantle of the saddle, using _everything_ that was left of himself to haul himself up. Sweat pooled beneath his clothes and he could taste blood in his mouth; the world spun slow and wretchedly even at this height, and he had to lean over the horse’s neck to keep himself from falling off. The coarse hair of the horse’s mane tickled the tips of his fingers as he squeezed his knees into the mount’s sides, carefully urging the horse into a walk. 

Together the three of them left the chaos of the camp behind and escaped into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos, comments and constructive criticism is always appreciated. You can find me on my Tumblr right [here](https://valerin-berenghar.tumblr.com/) where I'm always happy to talk about these dorks!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say thank you to each and every one of you – the response to this story has been amazing. It has made my day to read your comments and see all the kudos you guys have left, so from the bottom of my heart – thank you. I hope this chapter does the story justice.

“I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone named Lancelot before.” 

There was the scratch of steel knocking on flint; a stumpy sound that echoed within the cave. Yellow sparks stretched themselves tall by each knock, brushing the tinder but never long enough to fully latch on.

“And I have met a _lot_ of people so… I suppose you’re not from around.”

Beyond the cave, the heavens poured in a loud murmur that almost drowned out the boy’s words. Percival spoke as if he were thinking out loud, unhurried and sluggish, but between the headache and the dire need to get the fire started, he was background noise at best to the monk. 

The bleak morning light reached far into the recess, illuminating the space in that stale hue that almost made everything feel even colder. The same light almost made the Green Knight look translucent – his lips were blue and the angry gash on his brow didn’t look that red anymore. He could spy him at the corner of his eye, a gut-wrenching sight that forced the monk to actively put his mind onto the task to keep himself from glancing right to where they’d laid him down. They’d propped up one of the saddles for him as a pillow and tucked him in with both saddlecloths, a blanket, and the cloak; anything to keep him warm. 

“Are you from that _stupid_ land where all other Paladins come from? That Holy land or whatever it’s called.” 

The monk peered up through his eyelashes at the boy, hands stilling momentarily. Percival looked him dead in the eye, chin held high and mouth set in a tense line. They hadn’t shared more than a handful of words throughout the ride, but now it was as if something was coming undone. The sound of pouring rain rose in strength as the tension pulled tight between them; the boy’s words had been sharp, almost like a dare to see if he would let the taunt pass unaddressed. 

After a long moment of nothing, the monk finally said, “No.”

“Then where are you from?”

“You wouldn’t know it,” he croaked; throat raw and scraping by each word. 

Percival narrowed his eyes, head cocking to the side. “Try me—I know every settlement from the wall to the south.”

The determination on the boy’s face had him look away, hands idly reaching out to rearrange some of the bark and grass that made up the tinder, bunching it up closer before he began again. The knock of steel hitting flint echoed around them once more in that same rhythmic pace, but that didn’t stop the silence from growing tense with anticipation. 

He tried to think of the last time someone had asked him that question, but his head ached over the mere effort. The ride here was a fragmented memory at best, and he felt weathered to the bone, raw and cold and horribly tired – the kind of tired that wouldn’t go away after a night’s sleep. Each blink felt like he was blinking through gravel and he didn’t want to talk, didn’t want anything at all, but something told him that ignoring the boy would only make matters worse. 

“Brittany,” he mumbled finally, knuckles turning pale as he continued to scrape the steel against the flint. Sparks flew high and low around the tinder, but still not catching on.

“Brittany,” Percival echoed. “That’s across the big water, isn’t it?” 

_ Across the sea _ , he thought as he nodded once. Bits and pieces from his past replayed before his mind’s eye – memories that had become so distant that they didn’t even feel like his own anymore. He supposed that the place that came to him wasn’t really home, but it was from before and he remembered the curve of the bay, the beach that seemed to stretch on forever, and the _smell._ He would never forget how the beach smelled on a sunny day and how it’d filled his entire lungs. The salt in the air, the pale sand, the heaps of seaweed along the shoreline – the ghostly scent tickled his nose in such vivid way that it made him flick the steel faster against the flintstone. 

“What’s that place like?”

“Gone,” he said perhaps a little too quick, a little too sharp; steel coming down hard against the flint. 

All at once, the sparks birthed a speck of ember. 

A spiral of smoke danced from the tinder, thin and faint but still there. He immediately put the fire striker to the side and leaned in closer to gently blow onto the ember, face twisting up as he tried his darndest to ignore the _pang_ in his ribs over the sudden movement. They both watched with bated breath as the ember spread, greedily devouring the kindle. Percival quickly handed him a few twigs that he cautiously fed the small flame.

The fire grew slowly but surely, and before long they had a hearty fire to keep them warm. He added a couple more branches before he sat back and rubbed his hands together, massaging away the numbness and ache that prickled beneath the skin. He watched how Percival eagerly shifted closer, back straight and palms coming up to face the fire. There wasn’t a trace of that tough look on his face anymore and for a moment, everything that existed was the blessed sound of crackling fire. It was almost as if the budding flames had burnt away the invisible strings that tightened the air between them as well. 

Around them, the campfire made the light dance upon the cave walls. They’d ridden until the crack of dawn, stayed far from the main roads in favor of lesser paths, and in the end, they’d even diverged from those. It’d been pure luck that they’d found the cave – the place was big enough that they’d led the tired mounts up the pebbled slope and now they stood deeper into the recess, majestic heads hanging low and their tack piled next to them. 

“Do you think there’s anything down there?” 

The monk tore his eyes from the darkness that stretched beyond the horses, not realizing that he’d been left staring. It was hard not to notice the unease that marred the boy’s face; brows knitted tight and gleaming eyes fixated on that dark void behind the horses. He looked so small where he sat next to the Green Knight; knees pulled up against his chest and arms wrapped around – or perhaps he just looked his age; like a child scared of the dark. 

“Rats maybe,” the monk mumbled as he idly rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, stroking that silvery scar that ran across his fingertips. The cave could easily house a bear, but the place didn’t smell like one and whatever that hid in the darkness was probably nothing worse than what the boy’s young mind could conjure up. 

Percival looked away as he hugged his knees closer to his chest. The silence draped itself like a blanket over them and each passing moment of _heavenly_ serenity reminded the monk of that bone-deep fatigue; of every ache, every throb in his body. Between riding through the night and securing the campfire, there hadn’t been any time—any strength to peel away the clothes and assess the damage done. The world didn’t sway or spin as easily anymore, but everything that could ache, ached. He’d been around long enough to know that a wound always hurt more the day after and he was slowly realizing that today was that day. He knew that if he just closed his eyes, sleep wouldn’t be more than a heartbeat away, but there was a whisper of obligation at the back of his mind that kept him from turning in. 

He observed through half-lidded eyes as the Green Knight’s chest rose and fell, over and over again without fault. The warm light cast from the fire brought some color back to his face, and if the monk squinted, he supposed he could believe the man to be asleep. He looked peaceful – hauntingly peaceful despite the patches of flaking blood and grime that stained his face. 

Throughout the night he’d been convinced that they’d dragged a corpse around. The Knight hadn’t stirred, hadn’t even made the slightest sound even as they’d almost dropped him from the saddle. The monk couldn’t tell if his soporose state was because of whatever he’d seen in that tent, or if it was brother Salt’s treatment that’d damaged him that way. Both options left him with an uneasy feeling; one that immediately reminded him of that weight in his chest, of the knot that ached and pulled whenever he breathed in. 

He’d heard of brothers who’d strayed from their faith only to get sent to brother Salt’s kitchen; stories of how they’d returned as nothing but a shell of themselves. One part of him wondered if the Green Knight would be like them if he ever woke up again – distant and silent and forever changed. He wondered how Percival would react to that—to look into the eyes of someone dear only to find them glazed over and vacant. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, mentally barricading himself from continuing that train of thought as his chest ached anew. A long time ago, Father had explained that this sensation—this hurt came to those with a fiery heart. That it was a permanent wound – one that would never heal, never close because it wasn’t a cut or a gash or a bruise, but a hole in the soul. He’d said that some days would be better than others, that God would fill the vacancy and take away the pain while other days… other days were like this. Days where it felt like someone was carving into that hole with a dull knife and filled it with rocks. 

He scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed, gathering what little strength he had left before he directed his attention to the nearby saddlebags, pulling them close with a groan. He rummaged through the contents, pulling out the waterskin and a handful of rags that looked like they could’ve been an old shirt before he gingerly moved closer to the Green Knight. 

Percival sat up straighter. “What are you doing?”

“We need to check on him,” he said; the words were nothing but a whisper.

They shared one glance before the boy inched closer to lend a hand. Together they folded back the layers they’d wrapped the Green Knight in and after some delicate maneuvering, they slipped off his shirt as well. The battered state of his face matched the rest of him – where he wasn’t cut or burned or carved into, there was instead a bruise in every color. Every mark was a sickening testimony to the violence he’d been forced to endure.

For as much as the monk wanted to look away, the guilt clawed into him with reckless abandon, needling his gaze onto the resting knight. He swallowed dryly, ignoring that lump in his throat as he tried to shake the thought of how different things could’ve been if he’d just done something— _anything_ different, but it was impossible – just as it was impossible to ignore the way his chest ached more and more by each beat of his heart. 

Perhaps this was a fitting punishment – to clean the body of his enemy and be forced to soak in the dreadful thought that he wouldn’t be able to set things right again, no matter how hard he tried. He could tend to the Knight’s wounds and see the boy to safety, but that wouldn’t change anything – wouldn’t bring him any closer to salvation or forgiveness. He could go back to the camp, to his brothers and back to Father, and plead for mercy but that wouldn’t take the pain away, wouldn’t save his soul. 

“Didn’t you stab him?”

The question sprung out of nowhere; it sounded awkwardly light considering the nature of the topic. His heart skipped a beat, eyes widening as he regarded Percival who looked impressively unfazed.

The boy shrugged a little unsure. “I mean… I saw you two—in the forest when you caught him.”

For a blissful moment, his mind drew a blank and left him staring—blinking. But then he remembered the fight from not so long ago; a memory that had previously been one to look back on with pride was now something he desperately wanted to undo. He hadn’t known—hadn’t sensed that there’d been another Fey so close during the fight and the realization that Percival had seen it all had him clench his jaw shut so tight that his teeth hurt. 

He breathed out shakily through his nose as he sat the waterskin to the side, fingers carefully reaching out to touch that spot right beneath the knight’s ribs where his gaze had stumbled and stopped. His fingertips felt blazingly warm as he trailed that wide, silvery scar from one end to the other. It was smooth like it’d always been there. 

He could swear to God that it was the _exact_ place where he’d sunk the dagger in just a few days before. There wasn’t another wound—another scar on him that could match that and _—_

—between one blink and the next, the scar flashed green in the fire’s dancing light. 

The hair at the back of his neck rose and he pulled his hand back as if burnt. 

It was _impossible—_ it couldn’t be that wound, it just _couldn’t_ be.

The Green Knight had nicked him on the arm during that fight and he could still feel the throb from that gash; it hadn’t even begun to heal. 

“Perhaps the grass healed him,” Percival continued carefully, voice low as if he were speaking of something forbidden. “You know… from when we found him.” 

The monk carefully reached out again, fingers touching another scar just a little higher – a small, circular mark that was equally pale and smooth. The longer his eyes lingered on that landscape of bruised and battered flesh, the more he realized that there were more scars just like that. When his fingers accidentally brushed across a dry scab, it fell off easily – revealing another silvery scar beneath. 

He grabbed the waterskin and dampened one of the rags, folding it twice before he carefully ran the cloth across the Knight’s chest. There was a burn right over his sternum – the surface was black and bubbled and utterly disgusting, but the moment he swept the damp rag over the blistered spot, the whole scab came off as easily as the first. The scar beneath looked the same: silver and age-old and _undeniably_ flashing green in the dancing light cast from the campfire. 

It was almost as if it was a fire within him. 

In the corner of his eye, he saw how Percival wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Perhaps the grass is still healing him, but you know…” the boy gestured awkwardly at his own chest, “on the inside.”

The monk couldn’t tell which of them was more insane – the boy for suggesting such lunacy, or himself for believing it because it was the only thing that made even the _slightest_ sense _._ He tossed the tainted rag into the fire, nasty scab and all, and in that exact moment as his palm faced the flames, he almost thought the thin scar across his fingers flickered in the same green. 

He quickly balled his hand into a tight fist, knuckles whitening and nails digging into his palm as if that would unsee it. His heart pounded furiously in his chest as his mind _screamed_ that this was magic—demon magic and he could practically hear Father scolding him for getting branded by the Devil himself; that he’d turned his back from salvation and instead carved his name onto Hell’s gate. 

“Do you think he’s going to be alright?” 

The boy’s question cut through the war inside his mind; it was wretchedly hopeful. He didn’t want to make promises, didn’t want to say anything at all – he wanted to crawl out of his skin and disappear, to make that unrelenting pressure over his chest go away. He wanted things to be alright – for the sake of the boy, for the sake of the Green Knight but he knew deep in his bones that this _thing_ – this display of demon magic – didn’t have to mean anything at all. Healed flesh wasn’t a guarantee that the Knight would wake up or even be the man he once was, but he couldn’t say that.

He felt the boy’s eyes weigh heavy on him, and it took every bit of willpower to not meet Percival’s gaze. Instead, the question hung unanswered between them and twisted that air of hope into something far more disheartening. He swallowed down the guilt—the shame— _everything_ that was raging inside him before he slowly reached for a new rag. It was as if the mere gulp of the waterskin threatened to break the stifled spell between them as he dampened the cloth. 

In the corner of his eye, he saw how Percival deflated with a loud sigh, shoulders sagging and mouth curving down. 

Time seemed to slow as he gently ran the cloth over the Knight’s brow. A single drop slid in between his eyebrows and down the bridge of his nose, and the absurd thought that came to the monk was that it should tickle. But the Knight didn’t flinch, didn’t make a sound – not even when he cleaned the wounds that hadn’t healed yet by whatever that was burning inside him. He took his time and for a long while, he managed to keep his mind on the matter; to shield himself from the chaos, the fear that gnawed inside his mind. He found solace in the detail that the Green Knight looked a little less like death by each wipe of the cloth. 

“Why did you save me?” Percival asked and it was barely a question; it was a demand for answers. 

The monk met the boy’s steeled gaze for a blink, and then looked away, back to where he was running the rag over the Knight’s arm. A beat of silence passed, and then another, and another. 

“ _Hellooooooooo_ ,” Percival shifted closer, neck craning down and to the side just to look him in the eye, “did you hear what I said?” 

The monk leaned slightly to the side to stop the boy from glimpsing up his nose. “I heard you,” he mumbled as he folded the bloodied rag in his hands. 

Percival sat straighter again, hands coming out wide in an irked gesture that matched the impatience that laced his voice. “Then answer my question – why did you save me?”

For an agonizing moment, there was nothing but the crumbling silence. The monk could almost count every beat of his heart before the boy realized that there wouldn’t come a reply. 

Percival sighed heavily and tried again, “Did you save me just to have a reason to kill those creepy guards?” 

The monk exhaled sharply through his nose at the outlandish suggestion. “No.”

“Then why did you save me?”

There was another stretch of silence, but then the monk offered the slightest nod toward the Green Knight. “Because of him,” he said quietly as if the mere confession would unearth the whole truth.

Percival narrowed his eyes. “What? Why? What did Gawain say to you?”

The name rang loud in the monk’s ears. In the haste of it all, he realized that he’d forgotten the Green Knight’s name – he’d heard it before, a long time ago when the campaign had begun. “It’s a long story,” he offered fleetingly.

“We got time—we have all the time in the world,” Percival argued and when the monk peered up at him, there was that tough look on his face – determined and serious and _simmering_. It was as if it was the only thing that mattered in the world; to hear the full story about why he’d gone against everything he’d ever known to save a poor Fey boy from getting pulled apart at the seams. 

The problem was that he _didn’t_ know. When he’d gone after the boy, he’d only thought as far as his nose could reach. Gawain’s words had echoed within his mind ever since their talk in brother Salt’s tent and he hadn’t been able to shake it off; it’d been a constant reminder of his hypocrisy and perhaps one part of him had hoped that it would stop if he just made one thing right—if he just let one go.It hadn’t been about picking sides, not intentionally at least – he’d just wanted to save the boy a world of hurt and now…. now they were here. 

He knew that he was stalling, mind running feverishly in an attempt to say anything that wouldn’t sound dumb or senseless, but before he could get one word out, he saw the exact moment the boy’s patience ran out. 

Percival squared his shoulders with a fuming heave, gaze piercing through his soul and then the words poured out of him with a ruthless edge. “You are literally _the_ _worst_ of the worst when it comes to the damn Paladins but despite all that you still decided to save me— _us_ —and now you can’t even tell me why!”

The echo carried the boy’s anger high in the cave. 

“I hope that you don’t think that this makes us even—or that you’ve made things right, I still hate you more than I have _ever_ hated anyone before!” 

It was as if the air disappeared between them. The echo whispered the boy’s word a second time before the silence resumed its deafening rule. For a long, aimless moment, all they did was to look at each other. 

Even a deaf man could hear that the boy meant every word. The truth didn’t sting – didn’t surprise him because it wasn’t anything that the monk didn’t already know, but the words breathed into that fiery shame lodged deep within him. He could feel his face heat up, palms feeling hot and clammy as he shifted the cloth from one hand to the other. He averted his gaze first and in the corner of his eye, he saw how Percival pushed himself up and rounded the fire, plopping himself down there as if the additional distance between them would make the silence any more bearable. 

It didn’t – at least not for the monk. The silence stretched more than just around them; his mind was a shell, echoing and empty of all the frantic thoughts that’d previously existed. He knew that he was damned in more ways than one – that he would never be forgiven, not in the eyes of God or by the boy and he wanted to believe that he’d made his peace with that. It was just different to hear that thought being shouted by someone else; to see the hate twist the boy’s face and raise his voice.

He told himself that the boy’s hate was fair, again and again as he idly continued with what he set out to do. The sound of the wet rag dragging across Gawain’s body felt like the loudest thing in the world and he watched how his scars shifted from silver to green in pace with the fire’s dancing flames. Where the sight had previously put the fear of God in him, there was now nothing – just as he felt nothing when he later wiped his hands dry on his thighs and saw the way his own scar pulsed green in cursed unison. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos, comments and constructive criticism is always appreciated. Despite the slow pace, I hope this second chapter was still worth your time. 
> 
> As always, you can find me on my Tumblr right [here](https://valerin-berenghar.tumblr.com/) where I'm always happy to talk about these dorks, or where you can just pester me to write faster. Chapter three should pop up sometime next week. :)
> 
> **Edit as of 6th of September 2020:** This story has **not** been abandoned, life have simply gotten the better off me as of late. My aim is still to continue this story and hopefully, the next chapter should pop up now during September.


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